Chapter 23

Pierre had two names. The first was Baroness Eloise de Montargent, the female who Duchamp the blacksmith had implied was behind the disappearance of the missing women and children of Dole. He recognised that name as belonging to the unappealing matron he had encountered in the surgeon’s house, standing over the body of the dead boy. The second name was that of the young woman who had so easily soothed the brute that the townsfolk had called a werewolf, Mademoiselle Sidonie Montot – who also happened to be the niece of Baroness de Montargent. Like most intelligent men, Pierre did not believe in chance or coincidence. As Father Ignace had said, ‘The Devil conceals himself in the bodies of the weak and sinful.’

Pierre had spent the morning writing to both his father and Monsieur Jacques Fontaine the elder. He sent more frequent missives now that he had important information to share – although the content did differ between the two. To his father he wrote of the business at court and his influence with the chancellor. He was careful to avoid mention of the werewolf hunt, at least until it bore fruit. To Monsieur Fontaine he reluctantly shared the news that his former mentee, the court prosecutor Henri Camus, had been named procureur général of the court. Once the werewolf was apprehended – and it soon would be – Henri Camus would have the honour of prosecuting the beast, not Pierre. The feeling that he was being deprived of something that was rightfully his left a sour taste in his mouth. It tainted his actions, for what reason was there to hunt this werewolf if the honour and acclaim would go to another? No matter. Pierre would claim his own victories, ensure that it was his name people associated with the werewolf of Dole. Titles be damned. There was only one name people would remember: Pierre de Lancre.

Pierre was on his way to post the latest letters when he crossed the marketplace and saw the gallows. It had not been there the previous day. Yesterday this site had been filled with the sights and sounds of market day – a press of townsfolk and merchants bumping elbows, hips and baskets, an activity replicated in every town in France.

Pierre peered at the wooden structure, his eyes trailing up the vertical wooden gibbet and along the horizontal crossbeam to the four individual nooses, ending with the swollen faces and protruding tongues of the condemned. A crow with oil-slick black feathers worried at the eyeball of the man hanging furthest to the right. Pierre’s own eyes narrowed in recognition.

‘What happened here?’ Pierre asked as the crow flew away with the eyeball of Duchamp the blacksmith in its talons.

A fellow onlooker replied, ‘Robbery. They stole from several houses and killed one of the owners – a draper. The court held a special trial at dawn.’

The blacksmith must have been in a hurry to leave town and he would have needed quick coin to do so, Pierre thought, watching the man’s boots swing back and forth in the wintry breeze. Hanged men were a common enough sight in cities and towns; however, he could not recall having seen a man of his acquaintance dangling from the gallows before. Any guilt Pierre had felt over letting the man go free was now gone. Any secrets they had shared had been taken to the grave. Duchamp was a murderer twice over if he had indeed killed his son. Pierre might have been mistaken about the man committing filicide, but the evidence of his other crimes was before his eyes. It was a matter he would like to discuss with Father Ignace, although he’d seen little of the priest recently. If he did not know better, he would swear that Father Ignace was avoiding him.

But a visit to Notre-Dame would have to wait, for Pierre had important business to discuss with Capitaine Vasseur. He had not wasted the previous evening, instead reading through notes from the second murder, that of the ten-year-old girl in the meadow near Authume. The three men who had found the child had presented themselves at the conciergerie the following morning, but it appeared no one had spoken to the owner of the home where the child had been brought and later died. The home in question was owned by Baroness Eloise de Montargent. He had a clear connection between the werewolf attacks and the missing women and children. And it all led back to the baroness.

Capitaine Vasseur did not share his theory, but he agreed that Pierre should speak to her. ‘Baroness de Montargent is an important personage in our town, and I will have her treated with the respect she deserves. I should go myself, but I have to meet with the chancellor, and it cannot wait. Take Gendarme Nicolas Soret with you – he’s been there before.’

Pierre bristled at the implication that he did not know how to behave appropriately towards a member of the nobility – even one he suspected of criminal activity – but to the capitaine, he offered simple words of reassurance.

Dusk had fallen by the time Pierre reached the gates of Baroness de Montargent’s estate. The long shadows cast from the heavy iron gates slowly faded, inky darkness swallowing all that lay beyond. Around him the coterie of men he had gathered stamped their feet against the cold, chattering to one another, their breath a visible white vapour. A long, mournful howl sounded in the distance and Pierre spun to catch the origin of the noise. Impossible to tell if it came from within the estate or without. He moved closer to the men.

‘Capitaine Vasseur will not like this.’

Pierre rolled his eyes. Gendarme Soret had said the same thing at least four times while Pierre had scoured Dole’s taverns, looking for loyal men to accompany him. He meant to search every yard of that estate; with any luck, he would uncover both the missing children and the werewolf himself. Even now it could be sheltering somewhere beyond that gate. The estate was certainly large enough to hide a beast. He shuddered at the memory of the brute he had watched Mademoiselle Montot lead away in town. An accusation without proof was ill advised. But he would find it.

‘An estate of this size should have a gatekeeper,’ he remarked to the young gendarme. ‘What is the point of having a gate if there is no one to keep it?’

‘The gate isn’t locked, monsieur.’ Gendarme Soret went to open it, but Pierre stopped him. He could see dogs roaming about the property.

‘What do you know of Baroness de Montargent?’ he asked Gendarme Soret.

‘Her late husband was a baron. Now she’s a recluse. Lives here with her companion and some servants.’

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, the same old man he had seen accompanying the dowager baroness at the surgeon’s house approached the gate. ‘Messieurs,’ he said in a deep, cultured voice. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘Pierre de Lancre, requesting an audience with Baroness de Montargent on important business on behalf of the court of the Parliament of Dole.’

The butler looked at Pierre and then Gendarme Soret, the latter with a flicker of recognition, then to the group of men shifting uneasily on their feet behind them. ‘Baroness de Montargent is taking supper. You must return tomorrow.’

Pierre grabbed the iron bars of the gate and shook hard. ‘I will not. Either you admit me and my men, or Baroness de Montargent and every member of her household – including you – will pass the night in the conciergerie.’

The butler raised one eyebrow by a scant degree. ‘And what shall I say is the nature of your enquiry?’

Pierre had not planned to reveal the extent of his knowledge so soon, but the butler’s tone angered him. He did not attempt to lower his voice, wishing for all to hear. ‘The kidnapping and enslavement of children. And harbouring the woman named Sidonie Montot, who has been seen conspiring with a hermit suspected of werewolfery.’

Gendarme Soret’s eyes went wide, and he took a step back. ‘You never said that’s why you wanted to come here.’

‘I have no reason to reveal details of my investigation to you,’ Pierre retorted.

‘I won’t be party to this.’ The young gendarme left the group – to return to town, no doubt, and to tell all to Capitaine Vasseur. Never mind , Pierre thought. He had all the evidence he required, including the support of the group of men around him, who sent the gendarme on his way with cries of cowardice.

The butler watched everything with the same passive expression. ‘Wait here, monsieur. I shall see if madame is receiving visitors.’

Pierre could not help but admire the butler’s professional demeanour, so out of place in the provinces. The grounds of the estate were also impressive, as was the house that stood in its centre. What was the world coming to when people of such quality engaged in criminal activity?